


pulled my heart out and i don't mind bleeding

by cumulativeChaos



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, and the reason is as sinister as youd expect, basically theres a reason magnus hired a teenager with a fake cv and few personal connections, because god knows canon isnt gonna give us one, canon divergence from e159, rated M for violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumulativeChaos/pseuds/cumulativeChaos
Summary: When Jon stumbles, blinking, into the grey light of mid-afternoon London, Basira is already waiting for him. She’d shown him this tunnel entrance three days after his return from death, five blocks from the Institute and hidden behind a restaurant dumpster. He hadn’t expected her to be waiting for him, but he’s glad she is. She meets his eyes with a cold, steely gaze, then starts walking. Jon scrambles to follow.“Peter?” she asks.“Dead.”“Jonah?”“Alive. I don’t know where.”“Martin?”“A-” Jon’s voice catches in his throat. “Alive. I think. I don’t know where he is.”---In the Lonely, Jon finds and kills Peter Lukas, but finds no trace of Martin. Together, he and Basira search.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, background basira/daisy and georgie/melanie
Comments: 90
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at s4 jonmartin angst pining* how can i make this longer and, somehow, even more angsty
> 
> title from lonely boy by the black keys because i can't come up with titles to save my fuckin life. have a dumb entity joke. ngl this boy do be kinda lonely tho
> 
> (combined the original first 2 chapters bc they were so short)

When Jon stumbles, blinking, into the grey light of mid-afternoon London, Basira is already waiting for him. She’d shown him this tunnel entrance three days after his return from death, five blocks from the Institute and hidden behind a restaurant dumpster. He hadn’t expected her to be waiting for him, but he’s glad she is. She meets his eyes with a cold, steely gaze, then starts walking. Jon scrambles to follow.

“Peter?” she asks.

“Dead.”

“Jonah?”

“Alive. I don’t know where.”

“Martin?”

“A-” Jon’s voice catches in his throat. “Alive. I think. I don’t know where he is.”

Basira glances at him out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t say anything. Jon is grateful for that.

“Where’s Daisy?” he asks. “Is she okay?”

Jon didn’t think it was possible, but Basira’s gaze hardens even more. She picks up her pace, forcing Jon to practically jog to keep up with her.

“She’s alive,” Basira says after a few moments. “She’s not okay.”

“Oh,” Jon says. Then, “Oh. _Oh._ Basira, I am so–”

“Save it,” she snaps. “We can bring each other up to speed later. For now, we need to get out of here.”

“Right,” Jon says. “Right.”

* * *

When Basira said “out of here,” Jon had expected her to mean “out of the country,” or at the very least out of London. When she stands up at Georgie’s stop on the Underground, he’s startled out of his racing thoughts.

“I-I don’t think this is a good idea,” Jon stammers, standing up with her. “They probably don’t want to see me.”

“Probably,” Basira agrees. “But they have something I need.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that, so he remains silent as the tube screeches to a stop and Basira sets off at near-jogging speed. Jon can’t help from glancing over his shoulders, trying to spot any of the many, many faces that want to hurt him. The Not-Them, Trevor and Julia, Jonah–

He brings his thoughts forcibly to a halt. He can’t think about Jonah. Not now.

Taking the lift to Georgie’s fifth-floor flat is practically muscle memory by now. He lingers a few paces back as Basira knocks on the door, wishing there was a corner or a potted plant he could hide behind. The desire only strengthens when Georgie opens the door and her eyes immediately focus on him.

“Oh, _he’s_ here?” she asks coldly. Jon can’t help but flinch.

“Pretend he isn’t,” Basira says. “I need to collect my things.”

Georgie’s eyebrows raise, but she says nothing as she steps aside to let Basira through. Jon expects her to close the door behind them, but she looks at Jon expectantly.

“Well?” she says. “Don’t just stand in the hallway like a lunatic.”

“Ah.” Jon hurries in after Basira, then nearly trips on a pile of fur that has suddenly manifested in the doorway. The Admiral yowls in greeting before rubbing his face against Jon’s calf, purring.

“Yes, hello, Admiral,” Jon says. He bends down to pick up the cat as Georgie closes the door behind him.

“Stay here,” she says. “We’ll be right back.”

“Of course,” Jon says. He watches as Georgie follows after Basira in a hurry, heading in the direction Jon knows leads to the guest-room-slash-recording-studio. When he hears the door click, he expects silence, but footsteps begin to come back the way Georgie came, heading towards where Jon is standing, holding the Admiral and feeling entirely out of place. He can tell from the slow, shuffling steps that it’s Melanie, but he doesn’t say anything until she turns the corner, hand brushing against the wall for guidance.

“Hello, again,” he says.

“Didn’t expect to hear from you again,” Melanie says. “Didn’t expect you to still be alive, honestly.”

He snorts at that. “No, despite my best efforts, I am still, somehow, alive.”

Melanie smiles, barely, then gestures to where Jon knows the kitchen is. “Come on, Georgie just boiled a kettle.”

While Georgie's never been a particularly messy person, her kitchen is still the cleanest and most organized Jon has ever seen it. The reason for this quickly becomes apparent as Melanie confidently makes her way to where the kettle is waiting, steam still rising from the open spout. Jon sets the Admiral down and takes a seat. He watches as, after some fumbling, Melanie grabs a mug at random from the cabinet above the stove, landing on an old grey mug with a stylized moth design— _his_ mug, the one he always used when staying with Georgie, though even if she could see Melanie would most likely have no way of knowing that. Jon is prepared to offer her help in pouring him a mug, but she pours the hot water into the mug with no problem.

“You pour your water before you put in the teabag?” Jon blurts without thinking.

Melanie… doesn’t laugh, exactly, but she breathes sharply out of her nose. “Is that a problem?”

“I-I suppose not,” Jon says. “That’s just now how Mar-”

He stops himself short. For a moment, his heartbeat roars in his ears, drowning out anything Melanie might be saying. He stares down at his fists, clenched until the knuckles are white, and tries to pretend his vision isn’t swimming.

“-on? Jon?”

Jon blinks, and his vision clears. Melanie is facing his direction, brow creased, dangling a dry tea bag over the mug of hot water.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Jon says.

Melanie slowly lowers the bag into the mug, not turning away from Jon’s general direction. She’s silent, pensive, and Jon can’t help but wish he could simply _read minds_ with any sort of ease or consistency.

“What happened,” she says after a moment. Her voice is flat; it’s hardly a question. Almost absentmindedly, she bobs the teabag in the water.

“I killed Peter Lukas,” Jon says. Deflecting, he knows he’s deflecting. But he can’t think about what else happened, what Magnus did to–

“I have a question, actually,” Jon says, sitting up straighter. “When you… cut yourself off from the eye. Did–”

“Yes, it hurt,” Melanie interrupts.

“I mean, I assumed,” Jon says. “But no, I wanted to ask if you… felt it working? Did you feel yourself sort of, I don’t know, coming back?”

Melanie stops bobbing the teabag. “That’s an odd question.”

“Humor me,” Jon says desperately. “Please.”

Melanie hums and sets the mug down on the counter. After a long moment, she says, “I suppose I did. I mean, I wasn’t really paying that much attention, if I’m being honest. A little busy with, like, the pain of gouging my eyes out.”

“Understood,” Jon says.

“But I did feel it slip, after the first eye,” Melanie says. “It was really tempting to stop because, well, y’know. Wasn’t too keen on gouging out my eye again. But I could feel _the_ Eye still holding on, even though its grasp was weaker. I couldn’t stop at just one.”

Jon tries to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat. “R-right, of course.”

“You thinking of giving up your spooky powers, Jon?” Melanie asks. “Got to say, I’m–”

“Jon.”

Jon startles. Basira is standing in the entrance to the kitchen wearing a plain black backpack she didn’t have before. Georgie is behind her, glaring daggers at Jon.

“Let’s go,” Basira says.

Jon turns back to Melanie, who raises the mug of tea she was making and takes a sip. He figures that’s as much of a direct order to leave as he’s going to get from her, though if he lingers much longer Georgie will probably be _extremely_ direct. He stands, nods at Melanie, then feels stupid for nodding to a blind woman.

“Thank you,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure what for. Information, he supposes, though nothing Melanie said was particularly surprising. Still, he supposes he knows for sure, now. The Eye’s grip is ironclad.

He follows Basira to the door. As he turns to close it behind him, he catches a glimpse of Melanie, Admiral in hand, leaning against Georgie with a smile. Georgie gazes up at her with a look of pure adoration, and Jon pretends not to feel a pang of agony as the door clicks shut.

* * *

It was on Jon and Martin’s eleventh lunch break together that Jon realized these shared meals could almost be considered dates.

He mentioned this, jokingly, to Martin, expecting the other man to laugh and return with a joke in kind. Instead, Martin flushed so hard his freckles nearly disappeared and stammered that, no, _surely nobody would mistake these outings for dates, that would be ridiculous and also highly unprofessional, and–_

Jon knew that Martin’s discomfort came from the fact that Jon was, after all, Martin’s boss, and even joking about a date must have made Martin uneasy. He knew this, but he couldn’t help but watch in amusement as Martin worked himself into a worried rant. Martin’s face, flushed, came to almost match the red of his hair, and his eyes were wide and his hands were moving wildly and his eyebrows were creased with worry and–

And all Jon could think was, _oh._

* * *

Martin’s eyes were brown, so dark that the pupils and the irises nearly blended together. It made his eyes seem huge, especially under the round glasses he wore. Everything about Martin is round and soft, but his eyes were something else. In the sunlight, they shone golden, and in the dim lighting of the archives, they bore into Jon as if trying to uncover his darkest secrets. During the depths of his paranoia, Jon wondered if his eyes held anything sinister, but as the lunches spent together grew more and more frequent, he couldn’t see anything in those eyes aside from warmth.

As Jon curls up with a spare blanket on Basira’s sofa, he tries not to think about the fact that the next time he sees Martin’s face, his eyes will be a cold, piercing grey.

* * *

“So, we need to regroup,” Basira says, pouring two mugs of coffee. Jon wants to protest, tell her he doesn’t drink coffee, but seeing the bags under her eyes he decides not to give her a hard time. It seems that she, like him, barely got any sleep last night.

“Right,” he says. He watches as Basira scoops a spoonful of sugar into each mug, then passes one over to him. He takes it, but doesn’t drink. “Ladies first?”

Basira sits across the table from Jon and takes a long sip of her coffee. Jon doesn’t understand how she doesn’t burn her tongue. “Not much to say, really.” She sets the mug down and gazes out the window. “The Institute is a crime scene. As far as I can tell, the fake Sasha escaped, as well as the vampire hunters. Daisy…” She trails off and takes another sip of the coffee.

“Daisy went full Hunt,” Jon says. It’s not a question. He already knows–not Knows, but knows, just on how Basira’s been acting.

Basira’s jaw twitches. “Yeah,” she says. “She told me to kill her.”

Jon’s stomach plummets to the floor. He already knew, really, but to hear it said out loud… Daisy had been trying so hard, and Jon’s past mistakes forced her to give in. The hunters, the Not-Them–

“Your turn,” Basira says, cutting him out of his thoughts. “What happened in the tunnels.”

Now it’s Jon’s turn to look out the window. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes as he tells her about finding the Panopticon, following Peter Lukas into the Lonely, forcing a statement from the man and then unintentionally tearing him to shreds.

“And Elias?” Basira presses. “Where’d he slither off to?”

Jon takes a deep breath. He debates taking a sip of his own coffee, just to stall a little longer. Saying it out loud will make it real.

“I found him in the Panopticon,” Jon says slowly, “eyes gouged out and begging for me to bring him back.”

Basira doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Well, shit.”

“Indeed.”

“By him, do you mean–”

“Jonah Magnus,” Jon said. “Elias–the original Elias, he’d been controlled by Jonah for so long there was hardly anything left of himself.”

“Jesus,” Basira breathes. “So was he–like, aware? The whole time he was controlled by Jonah?”

Jon knew the answer to that one–no, Jon Knew the answer. He’d pulled a statement from Elias Bouchard’s babbling lips barely moments before he forced another one out of Peter Lukas. He Knew, essentially, Bouchard’s entire life story, but most importantly he knew that Elias had faded in and out of awareness throughout the years, eventually slipping so far into complacency that at the sudden removal of his possessor, he barely knew how to move his own body.

“Wait,” Basira says. In the silence, her mind seems to have connected some dots. “You said Jonah was alive, and you said Martin was alive, but you didn’t know where he was…”

“When I followed Lukas into the Lonely, Elias was alive,” Jon says. “I searched for Martin in the Lonely for ages, and when I finally left, Elias was dead.”

Basira’s eyes are wide, the whites standing out against her dark skin. “Do you think–”

“Yes,” Jon says, teeth gritted, hands clenched into fists. “I think Jonah Magnus took Martin’s body.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW slight eye gore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> combined the OG chapter 1+2 bc ch. 2 was looking v small and lonely.

The decision to open his eyes is not his own, but Martin finds his eyes opening anyway.

He’s in… a place. A flat, it seems, and from the dingy light filtering through the window, he guesses he’s still in London. He doesn’t quite remember how he got here. He remembers the Panopticon, and shoving it in Peter’s _stupid_ face, then he remembers… nothing. A literal nothing, that is, a sense of cold void and blank uncaring. It was peaceful, almost, and then Peter was there again, empty grin and emptier words telling him to _be still, this will be over in a moment._

His body is moving, now, and it’s not of his own volition. He’s walking through the flat–which he notes seems _extremely_ expensive. He wants to take in the decor, but he doesn’t even seem capable of controlling his eyes.

For some reason, Martin isn’t worried. He’s spent the past months gradually becoming more and more numb, operating on auto-pilot, it seems now that’s been taken to its literal extreme. He can’t bring himself to care, much, as his body confidently makes its way to a spacious bathroom and stands before a full-length mirror.

His body is the same, unremarkable thing he’s used to. For whatever reason, the force controlling his body decides to twist and turn, as if trying to see every inch. Not that there’s much to see.

“Yes, I think this will do nicely,” his voice says, but there’s something off about it. Martin generally doesn’t sound so… _smug._

The _whatever_ that’s controlling him forces Martin to look his reflection in his eyes, and this makes him startle. His eyes have always been a boring brown, but now they’re _green._

“Ah, there you are,” his mouth says. He sounds disappointed. “I must say, Martin, I was hoping your time with Peter would’ve made this transition easier for us, but I can still feel your presence. Pity.”

Now worry is starting to build. Martin’s pretty sure that whatever this is, it isn’t something to do with the Lonely.

“You’re on the right track there, Martin,” says his body. “Now, think back. You were in the Lonely, and then…”

And then Peter Lukas told him to be still, which was an easy request to follow. He told Martin not to move, which was also easy. He told Martin not to shout while he slid something into Martin’s eye socket, which was so, so easy, and it barely even hurt when his eyes popped out of his skull.

If he could, Martin’s pretty sure he would scream.

* * *

They spend half a day listening to the police scanners, searching for… who knows what. Jon quietly thinks Basira has it easier; a wild animal stalking people through the streets of London will get more notice than a man possessed. After hours of nothing useful, Basira switches her radio off and heads to her room.

“This is a waste of time,” Basira says. “We need a different approach.”

“Right,” Jon says. “And that would be…?”

Basira returns with the plain black backpack slung over her shoulder. Something inside rattles as she places it on the table. “This,” she says, pulling out a gun.

Jon’s eyes bulge out of his head. “Wait, _what.”_

“I lost my other one in the attack.”

“No, I mean–are we going to _kill_ people?”

Basira meets him with a cold stare. “If we need to.”

As Jon attempts to stammer out a response, Basira rolls her eyes.

“I’m _joking,_ Jon,” she says.

“Oh,” he says. “R-right. Of course.”

“But _you_ need to learn how to fire one,” Basira says, “and we need information, and we’re not going to get it like this. Put your shoes on and follow me.”

* * *

Once the panic subsides, the first thing Martin thinks of is Jon. Which, actually, makes perfect sense: he's been thinking about the Archivist almost nonstop for literal years, now. Ever since his first day in the Archives, he's thought of Jon at least once a day. It started as idle daydreams, but it's quickly evolved into something much deeper. Usually, Martin worries about him. Even now, body no longer in his own control, Martin is worried about him.

"Oh, Jesus, is this what I'm going to have to listen to for the next several decades?" Jonah says with Martin's mouth. "Did Peter really not get through to you at _all?"_

 _Shut up,_ Martin thinks, and Jonah responds by chuckling. It's a sinister sound; Martin didn't know his body was capable of such a laugh.

 _What are you even doing?_ Martin tries to ask, but either Jonah doesn't hear it or he simply doesn't listen, because he makes no effort to respond. Instead, he continues to walk down the dark tunnels beneath the Institute, ambling as if he's having a casual stroll in the park. Martin's pretty sure he knows where they're going, and several minutes later he's proven right as Jonah turns and walks Martin's body into the vast circle of the Panopticon.

There's a figure, slumped on the platform above. It's not until he's reaching the top of the stairs that Martin realizes that he _recognizes_ the figure.

Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute—probably _former_ Head, now that he thinks about it—lies dead on the central platform of the Panopticon. The body of Jonah Magnus is still propped in its seat a few feet away, but Elias is sprawled unceremoniously across the floor, a knife lodged in his chest and a pool of blood spread around him.

"Eugh," Jonah says. "I _do_ hate getting my hands dirty."

 _Did you do this?_ Martin asks.

"Well, technically, _you_ did this," Jonah says. He kneels down and pulls the knife out of Elias's chest, then tosses it down to the floor of the Panopticon. "And I would've done this next part sooner if the Archivist hadn't been so hot on my tail."

Grimacing, Jonah grabs Elias's arm and slings it across Martin's broad shoulders. Through his nose, Martin can still smell the scent of blood. If he could, he would gag.

Jonah drags Elias's body up to the upper levels of the tunnels, closer to the Archive entrance. He eventually leaves Elias propped up against a wall, only a few feet from where the trapdoor to the Archives is. Jonah grunts and rolls Martin's shoulders, sheds his now bloodstained jumper, and sighs.

"Well, Martin," Jonah says. "Time to go reprise your role during the Prentiss attack."

* * *

Breaking into the police station is remarkably easy. According to Basira, most officers are probably out dealing with the mess at the Institute. Following behind an officer who heads inside after a smoke break, Basira leads Jon through the somewhat mazelike corridors of the station, navigating through cameras that she knows are broken. In the bullpen, only one officer is present, and he glances up as they approach.

"Basira?" the man asks. "The hell're you doin' here?"

"I need info on what's going on at the Institute," Basira says. She strolls up to the man's desk, glancing at the papers spread out across the surface. "Info that you seem to have."

"Not much yet," he says. "Still don't even know who all made it. _He's_ supposed to be missin'." The man nods to Jon.

"Listen, Goodman," Basira says, leaning in close. "Unless you want the higher-ups knowing where all those confiscated kilos went, you're gonna forget both of us were ever here. And I _do_ have proof."

Goodman swallows. "Right."

"Daisy," Basira says. "Any word?"

Goodman shakes his head. "None."

"Elias?"

"Dead."

"You found his body?" Jon asks, stepping forward. "Where?"

"In the tunnels," Goodman replies. "Young feller found him this mornin'. Big guy, think his name was Marvin?"

"Martin," Jon breathes.

"Ah, that was it."

Jon takes a step back. Basira is still talking to Goodman, asking him questions, but everything is suddenly muffled in Jon's ears. Martin was _at the Institute_ this morning, and Jon had been busy wasting his time on the police scanner.

It feels like coming back from his coma all over again, wandering the Institute and wondering where Martin could be. He'd spent days pacing the upper levels, hoping to spot a familiar face and a brightly-colored jumper. There had been so much he'd wanted to say, but Martin just seemed to stay just barely out of Jon's reach.

"-on? Jon?"

Jon blinks. Basira is staring at him. Behind her, the officer is staring at him, too.

"Yes?" Jon asks.

"I said let's _go."_ Basira sets off, leading the way back out of the station. Once they're out of sight of the bullpen, Basira says, "I'm guessing you didn't catch a word after _Martin?"_

"Correct," Jon admits.

"Right." Basira makes a turn, then quickly backtracks and pushes Jon into an empty room. Someone walks by the door, then Basira continues towards the exit. "Their story is that Martin's been hiding down there since the gunshots started going off. He stumbled across Elias's body, came crawling back into the light, got wrapped up in a shock blanket, and sent back to his flat.

"But the most important thing," Basira says, pushing the door open to the grimy alleyway behind the police station, "is that Martin is the new Head of the Magnus Institute." She turns to look at Jon, pity in her eyes. "You were right. Jonah has him."

Jon knew that. He _knew_ that, and yet hearing Basira confirm it makes a lump form in his throat. He swallows it down, just like he's been swallowing down all his emotions as of late. He can't help Martin if he's a sobbing wreck.

"Right," Jon says. "Right. Where to next?"

"I just told you," Basira says. "Martin's flat."

* * *

It was just a crush at first. A silly, useless crush, but something to get him through the days when his mother wouldn't answer his calls and the fear of being found out made him so paranoid he could hardly breathe. A stupid daydream to help lift his spirits.

Jon was his boss, after all. It's not like anything could come of it. Martin let himself fantasize, knowing his feelings were silly and harmless.

But when Jon took his statement. When Jon listened, eyes staring into Martin's soul. When Jon _believed_ him, gave him a place to stay in the Archives, took precautionary measures and tried to make sure Martin was as safe as possible.

That was when Martin knew he was in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading i love u


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTN!!! i combined the OG ch 1+2!! so chapter 2 is something completely new now!! sorry this is such a mess i have no beta i just post when im done the first draft of a chapter bc i have no impulse control

"What did you need the gun for?" Jon asks as they climb the stairs to Martin's flat.

"Let's just say we're lucky Goodman was in the office," Basira says. "I have dirt on him. I don't have dirt on everyone."

A moment, then, "Wait, were you going to _shoot_ someone?"

 _"No_ , Christ, calm down," Basira says. "I was going to _threaten_ to shoot someone."

"That was a _terrible_ plan."

"Well, unless the eyeball has a better one?"

Jon is silent.

"I thought so."

Mentally, Jon curses the Eye for its useless bits of information. It's been telling random facts about strangers on the street, but whenever he tries to glean what Jonah is up to, all he gets is a headache. He supposes this has to do with Jonah's centuries spent learning to avoid his Archivist's gaze. Whatever the case, Jon's inability to Know anything useful has him and Basira heading to Martin's flat, a hiding place so obvious there's no way Jonah is hiding there. Of course, Basira's logic is that it's "so obvious he wouldn't expect us to look there," but Jon's not holding out any hope. No way is it going to be _that_ easy.

"How did you know where Martin's flat was, anyway?" Basira asks.

Jon flushes, thinking about all the times he'd gone to Martin's flat while Martin was working for Lukas, all the times he'd knocked on the door and waited for hours before giving up and returning home. "Don't worry about it."

The door to Martin's flat is just as Jon remembers it: exactly the same as all the other doors in the hallway, save for the oddly-colored stain at the bottom of the door. That stain and the jar of ashes in Jon's desk is all that's left of Jane Prentiss, at this point.

Jon is prepared to knock, but Basira simply tries the doorknob and, when the door swings open, strolls right inside without hesitation. With only a little hesitation himself, Jon follows.

Jon's never seen Martin's flat. It is, in many ways, exactly as he'd expected: cluttered and comfy, with hand-made blankets piled in a basket and novelty mugs piled in the sink. As Basira forges ahead, Jon lingers in the living room, peering at a framed photograph resting on the mantle. The picture inside is of a younger Martin, round-faced and gap-toothed, smiling next to a tired-looking and similarly-freckled woman. The woman is smiling, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. Martin's mother.

"He's not here," Basira says, returning from the bedroom. She's holding a package in her hands. She hands it to Jon, saying, "This was left on the bed, though."

The package is small, with a sticky note on top reading PLAY ME.

"Any guesses as to what's inside?" Jon asks drily.

"Har-har," Basira says. "Any tape recorders nearby?"

Jon turns and scans the living room. There is indeed a tape recorder sitting next to the picture of Martin and his mother, one that wasn't there a moment ago. Jon rips the package open, places the tape inside, and presses play.

* * *

"Hello, Archivist," Martin hears his voice say. Jonah's tone is smug and sinister, two things Martin didn't know his voice was capable of.

They're back in Martin's flat, for some reason, although as Jonah continues to speak into the old tape recorder Martin's pretty sure he knows what that reason is. A small, stupid part of him hopes Jon doesn't come here, doesn't see what a mess his flat is, but he knows there are more important things to worry about.

More important things, such as the man possessing his body.

"Firstly, I would like to commend you for your _excellent_ performance in the Panopticon," Jonah says. "Finding Peter in the depths of his own domain? Destroying the man with your sheer power? While I'm saddened to lose such an old friend, I must say I am _delighted_ by your growth. Truly, I have never had an Archivist as exceptional as you.

"But I know praise is not what you wish to hear, so I'll cut to the chase," he continues. "As you can probably tell from my change in timbre, I have shed the body of Elias Bouchard. I felt it was time for a change of pace as we move into the final round of this little game. Of course, you want me to tell you where I am; obviously, I am not going to do this. But never fear: I will come to you when the time is right. Just be patient, Jon. We're almost finished, now."

Jonah takes a deep breath, sighing in contentment. Martin wishes he could punch him. It's bad enough he's stolen his body, but does Jonah really have to use it to _gloat?_

"Do you remember how _frustrated_ you were when you learned Martin was to be one of your assistants?" Jonah says with a chuckle. "My, how the times have changed. You used to give the poor man such a hard time. If the Institute were a bit more, well, _legitimate,_ I probably would have told you off for how you treated him. And he would try _so hard_ to please you.

"But don't worry," Jonah says. "I plan to take _excellent_ care of your old assistant. In the meantime, do try to keep up your strength, Jon." Martin hates the way Jonah says Jon's name, hates that it's _his_ voice that sounds like that. "I have big plans for you, Jon. _Big_ plans."

* * *

The tape ends with a _click_. Basira and Jon stare at the recorder in silence.

"Well, that's ominous," Basira says after a moment.

"Quite," Jon agrees.

"I didn't know you were mean to Martin," she says.

Jon winces. "It was a long time ago, but... yes. I was unfairly cruel to him."

He waits for more, for her to ask why Martin had cared so much for someone who treated him so poorly, for her to tell Jon he never deserved Martin's unwavering devotion. It's all things he's said to himself, many times, over the past months. He'd never even bothered trying to apologize to Martin. He knows Martin, if he's still capable of it, probably despises him by now, which is in all honesty what Jon deserves. He's long given up on ever trying to make amends with Martin. Right now, all he wants is for Martin to be okay.

"So, what now?" Basira asks, shaking Jon out of his thoughts. "We have no leads on where else he could be. Unless you know where Elias's flat is."

Jon shakes his head. "I suppose we keep searching for Daisy," he says, "and hope that the Eye decides to tell me where Martin is."

"That's the best plan you've got?" Basira asks.

"Best plan _we've_ got, unless you have another option."

Basira grinds her teeth. "Fine," she says. "Let's get out of here, it's creepy how dusty this place is."

* * *

Jon remembers exactly how he felt when he read the line, _if_ _the others find out I've been lying_. He's never felt anything like it, both before or since. The terror, the paranoia, and the tiny sliver of hope that it may have simply been a misunderstanding. He'd been suspicious of everyone already, but Martin had been slowly winning him over with the forced lunch breaks and the tea— _and_ he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he might have a bit of a crush on his assistant. So, while he hadn't written Martin out, he'd grown closer to him, until the thought of a possible betrayal left him shaken to the core. Were the lunches all part of a ploy? Was the _tea_?

 _Please, not him,_ he'd thought to himself. _Anyone but him._

Now, re-listening to the tape Jonah left for him, Jon finds himself thinking the same thing. _Please, not him._

"That's not healthy, you know," Basira says from the kitchen. Jon startles, hitting pause on the tape recorder. Martin's smug, possessed voice cuts out, so the only sound for a moment is the crackle of the police scanner.

"I feel like I'm past the point of worrying for my _health,"_ Jon says. He turns the tape back on, letting the sound of Martin's voice wash over him.

 _And he would try_ so hard _to please you,_ Jonah says with Martin's mouth.

"Do you know what's funny?" Jon calls, turning around so he can shout over the back of the couch. "This recording is the longest stretch of Martin's voice I've heard in over a year."

Jon can't see Basira from where he's sitting, but he's pretty sure she purses her lips. "I think the word you're looking for is _sad."_

He laughs bitterly at that. The familiar desire to have his feelings burned out of him rises in his throat. Jon wishes he could just _not care._

Closing his eyes, he tries again to See where Jonah is hiding. Once again, all he's met with is a headache. This time, the headache is quicker to come on and significantly more painful. He groans, turning off the tape recorder and laying down on the sofa. It's getting harder and harder to keep searching, and every time he tries he's left feeling more and more drained. He's told Basira this, but her response was simply that the payoff was worth it, if it meant finding their friends. Jon agreed, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep searching. He felt frail, hungry. He wondered what else was worth the payoff, in Basira's mind.

"Basira," Jon croaks.

Basira responds with a hum.

"I'm hungry," he says.

"There's takeout in the fridge," Basira says absently.

"No." Jon pulls himself into a sitting position. "I'm _hungry."_

There's silence from the kitchen, then Jon hears the radio switch off. A chair scrapes across the linoleum floor, and then Basira is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed.

"What do you want me to do about it?" she asks. "I can't exactly go rummaging through the Archives to find you a snack; it's still very much a crime scene."

"No, I know." Jon looks away, waiting for her to get it.

It doesn't take her long. "Oh, _no_ , you are _not_ going to–"

"Basira, I can barely stand." He tries, just to prove his point. The effort makes his legs shake. "I keep trying to search, but it's just making me weaker, and–"

"Tough luck," Basira snaps.

"–and I'm not going to be any help if we _do_ find them, in this state," Jon finishes.

"I wasn't expecting you to be much help in the first place," she says. "You're not exactly the strongest man in Britain."

 _"Basira,"_ Jon pleads. "I want to find them. I need to do this if I'm going to be strong enough."

"Didn't you just eat?" she asks. "Wasn't the tape Jonah left for you enough?"

"That wasn't a statement. That was just gloating. I need _more."_

"I told you," she snarls, "that if you needed to be _stopped,_ I would _stop_ you. Don't force me to make good on that promise."

Jon gulps. That is a threat he's certain she'll be willing to carry through. "Okay," he says.

Basira blinks. Apparently, she hadn't expected him to give up so easily. "O-okay," she says. "No feeding."

Jon nods. "No feeding."

* * *

Later, in the middle of the night, Jon sneaks out to feed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: organic food to feed your archivist


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings in the end notes!

The night is dark and smells of oncoming rain. Jon's done this often enough that he knows what to look for: nothing. _Trying_ to find a statement is futile. He knows if he walks aimlessly, a statement will appear for him.

It takes over an hour, and by that point, the need for a statement has become so strong Jon's practically ravenous. It's nearly three in the morning, so there aren't many people out, but those he passes give him a wide berth. He knows he must look like shit; tired, hungry, and literally craving human terror. He knows, but he can't bring himself to care.

In the end, the statement-giver comes to him. Mind lost in a fog of hunger, Jon doesn't even notice the man until the man grabs him by the arm and begins stammering out some kind of plea. Jon yanks his arm back, prepared to tell the man off, when he _sees_ it.

The wide eyes, the panted breath, the trembling hands—the man is being Hunted.

"Th-thank god, oh my god, I've been walking the streets for _hours_ —there's something _chasing_ me and I can't get away–"

"Quiet," Jon says, and the man is instantly silent. The fidgeting and darting eyes don't stop, however. Jon takes a deep breath, preparing himself. He can tell this is going to be a good one.

"What's happening to you?" Jon asks, not bothering to force the compulsion. In rolls off his tongue as natural as breathing.

The man takes a trembling, unsteady inhale, then begins.

* * *

Reginald Morrison—Reggie, to his friends—had always been an underdog. He's not the brightest, or the strongest, or the fastest, or the tallest, or the best-looking. Born the last of six sons, it seemed his brothers had spent up all the good genes, and Reggie was stuck with the scraps. He was mediocre at best, but most days he ended up a little lower than average. He graduated high school, barely made his way through uni, and ended up in a dead-end office job with shit pay and an even shittier work environment. The few girls he's ever dated either cheated on him or dumped him, and none ever lasted more than a month.

All Reggie wanted was some way to feel like he wasn't getting the short end of the stick. All he wanted was some way to feel _powerful._

The first time he did it, he'd just been dumped by his latest girlfriend. They'd lasted two weeks before she called it quits, calling him a "self-pitying manchild." Reggie had wanted to hit her. He didn't, of course, because he's not that kind of guy, but he'd still wanted to. Instead, after Jessica grabbed her things and stormed out of the house, Reggie went for a walk.

He wasn't trying to avoid crowds, necessarily, but as the roads became quieter and quieter, Reggie felt more and more at ease. Soon he was completely alone, save for the occasional huddled homeless person or some unlucky soul headed home after a late shift.

That's when he saw her. Her hair was long and blonde, her jacket red. If it wasn't for the jacket, Reggie probably wouldn't have noticed her, but as it was he found his eyes following this woman as she walked towards him. She looked a little like Jessica, if Jessica smoked less and wore less makeup. She looked nice.

The woman made eye contact, then her eyes quickly darted away. Reggie noticed how she picked up her pace after they passed, and after a moment's hesitation, he turned around and began to follow her.

The rush was unlike anything he'd ever known. Every time the woman turned around, Reggie would be a little closer to her, and the woman would pick up the pace, and Reggie would pick up his pace to match, and she'd look behind to see him even closer than before, wash, rinse, repeat. The woman was terrified. For once in his life, Reggie was the one in control. He stopped, of course, once they reached a more populated area, but the adrenaline rush it had given him was addictive. Before he even made it back home, Reggie knew he'd be chasing women again.

He knew it was wrong. He knew it, and yet, it wasn't like he was hurting anyone—not at first, anyway. Walking the streets after dark, going down dark and empty roads that were far from the bustle of the city and seeking out someone small, female, and alone just to chase her around for a bit wasn't _illegal_ —not that he knew, anyway. Nobody ever called the police on him, at least, and nobody ever got hurt. Really, what was the harm? Chasing women was the only thing that brought Reggie any true sense of satisfaction in his life, and he was not about to give that up.

The only reason it escalated was his fucking boss.

Her name, coincidentally, was also Jessica, and she was a smarmy bitch if Reggie ever knew one. She probably wasn't getting any action at home, which was why she was always in a bad mood and ready to snap at anyone at any moment. Reggie had been on the receiving end of her tirades before, but not like this. Never like this.

It had started as a normal reprimand, but as Reggie stood there sighing and rolling his eyes a vein in Jessica's temple began to bulge until she was screaming at him, red-faced, for being a lazy sack of shit with no spouse, no family, and no future.

She was right, of course. She didn't need to _say it_ , especially not loud enough for the entire office to hear.

That night, when he went out for his usual source of stress relief, Reggie knew something was different. He knew he needed more than just chasing. He needed to catch. He needed to _hunt_.

So, when he caught up with a woman for the first time since he'd started chasing them, he did to her exactly what she was afraid of. From that moment, it was all over.

He no longer chases for fun. He no longer is satisfied with a simple thrill. He's no longer satisfied with a pointless chase. The chase has to have meaning; the chase has to have an end. The women need to be caught.

So far, he's only caught four women. Sometimes, the women get away; they find their way to a crowded part of the city or they stumble across another pedestrian who is willing to help provide safety in numbers. Those nights are the worst. He's left feeling antsy and dissatisfied, even more in need of a cathartic release than when the night began. Still, the chase is worth it. On nights when he knows the woman he's chasing has no chance, he likes to drag it out a bit, force her terror to build to a breaking point before he finally ends the chase. It's the most powerful Reggie has felt in his entire life.

Things changed when he met the girl with the yellow eyes.

He needed release after the shitshow of a week he'd been having, so once the sun was down he set out. The cool night air was refreshing, but not as refreshing as the chase he was looking forward to. But for some reason, finding prey was almost impossible that night. Women were either walking in groups or sticking to the busier streets, and Reggie was having no luck. By two in the morning, he was about ready to scream in frustration. If he didn't find someone soon, he was going to lose it.

The woman he finally settled on was small, hunched, and leaning against an old brick building. She wore a hoodie, so Reggie couldn't see her face when she turned to look at him, but he could tell that she saw him. He expected her to start hurrying away, or at least go inside the building, but she merely turned away and resumed her silent stance.

That was fine, though. Reggie could take a different approach this time.

"Excuse me," he called as he strolled over to where the woman was standing, "would you know where I could fi–"

As he came closer, Reggie stopped in his tracks with his voice caught in his throat. The woman had turned to him, and now he was close enough to see that her eyes were yellow, like wolves. When she grinned, her teeth were like knives.

Reggie turned and ran.

The next morning, he decided what he'd seen was merely a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination, so he decided to give chase after it got dark, go for his favorite stress reliever the way he hadn't been able to the night before. He spent his Saturday relaxing, going to his favorite coffee shop and people watching, but he couldn't stop seeing the woman from last night out of the corner of his eyes. Every time he turned to look, there'd be nothing there, but it left Reggie feeling shaken and on edge. It didn't dissuade him from going out that night, however. If anything, his jumpy state convinced him that he _needed_ that thrill.

But when he stepped out of his flat that night, he saw her. Standing at the front door of his building, staring at the door, waiting for him. Reggie barricaded himself inside his flat until morning, when he snuck out and fled into the city.

He hasn't been back to his flat since. He's barely slept; every time he closes his eyes, she's there when he opens them, standing away from the crowd and staring at him with those big, yellow eyes. She's toying with him, he knows that. She's drawing it out, and Reggie's pretty sure he knows why. all he wishes is that she'd just get it over with.

* * *

Usually, when Jon finishes a statement, he thanks the statement giver, or at least apologizes. This time, he doesn't do either. Instead, he steps away from the man—from _Reginald_ —with disgust. He does nothing but watch silently as Reginald turns on his heel and runs, terrified, away from Jon.

When Basira steps into Jon's line of sight, he isn't even surprised.

"I told you not to feed," Basira says.

"How much of his statement did you hear?" Jon asks.

"Enough to know that he deserves everything he has coming to him," Basira says. "And enough to know what's chasing him."

"I think you mean, _who_ is chasing him."

"Right." Basira turns to look at where Reginald is still hurrying way in the distance. "So, follow the rapist?"

Jon nods. "After you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW man chasing women at night, heavily implied sexual violence


	5. Chapter 5

Following the rapist is exceedingly easy. It makes Jon wonder how long Daisy's been dragging out the hunt, letting Reginald get away to keep the chase going. If she wanted to catch him, Reginald wasn't making it particularly challenging. If _Jon and Basira_ wanted to catch him, it'd be a breeze. But they're not here for Reginald. They're here for Daisy.

It is Daisy that's following Reginald. Jon is sure of it. Big, yellow eyes on a small woman, Jon both knows and Knows that Daisy has been toying with this man. He almost wants to let her have his way, but he knows letting Daisy finish a chase will send her even farther into the Hunt. Even now, Jon's not sure if there's any saving her, but he knows _he_ plans to try. He realizes that he's not sure what Basira is planning to do.

"What do we do when we find her?" Jon asks.

Basira closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in through her nose. "Kill her," she says, and her voice barely breaks.

* * *

_Hunt._

_Chase._

_Feel your breath. Feel your heartbeat._

_Hear the heartbeat of the prey. Fast. Frightened._

_Grin._

* * *

It's a weird feeling, to know you're the only thing somebody cares about. Basira didn't realize she held that status until Jonah used her as a hostage.

"I won't let him hurt you," Daisy had growled. Her arms had been wrapped tightly around Basira, face buried into her neck.

"Have you seen the man?" Basira had scoffed. "I doubt someone that skinny can do much to hurt me."

Daisy had only shaken her head. "You don't know what he can do," she'd said. "He can see into your mind, pull out your darkest secrets. I don't want him to do that to you."

And Basira had realized that this thing between them, this thing that she'd always thought was more serious on her side than on Daisy's, might actually be the other way around. Basira might not be the one who cared more.

It scared her, but she didn't run away. She held on tight, vowed the same thing that Daisy had vowed to her, and decided she'd build her life around Daisy.

Even now, gun in her hand and fully intending to kill her, Basira's life revolves around Daisy.

* * *

Martin can't see what Jonah sees whenever he's looking through someone (or some _thing_ ) else's eyes. All that happens, on his end, is Jonah sitting back and closing his eyes—Martin's eyes—and sitting there, completely still, with only slight intakes of breaths as he reacts to whoever he's spying on. Martin has a pretty good idea who Jonah's spending all his time spying on.

And it is _all his time_. Other than eating, hiding, and sleeping, all Jonah does is sit in silence and _watch_. It leaves Martin with nothing to do but sit still and listen to the sounds of spooky haunted tunnels. He can feel himself slipping away the more Jonah does this, almost like in the Lonely, but there's just enough left of Martin to watch from his stolen eyes. He knows he should care, but he's having a hard time remembering why.

"Good, Martin," Jonah croons with Martin's voice. "Just watch. That's all you need to do."

Jonah takes Martin's body back to the Institute, back to the Archives. It's late, probably past midnight, and the crime scene that is the Magnus Institute is deserted. Jonah strolls through the Archives as if it's his home, as if he lives here. He goes to the Head Archivist's office (why does something about that feel important to Martin?), opens a drawer full of ashes and bone, chuckles, and opens a drawer full of stationery.

Martin watches as Jonah writes. At first, he doesn't understand. When he does, his consciousness jumps back in an instant.

" _NO!_ "

The cry tears itself from Martin's throat. The hand holding the pen spasms, sending the pen flying and ink splattering across the page. The body of Martin Blackwood stills as, internally, the soul of Martin Blackwood continues to scream.

 _Don't you_ fucking _dare_ , he shouts.

Jonah scowls and picks up a new pen. "Really, Martin," he says, "I expected better from you."

Sweating and clenching his jaw, but still maintaining control, Jonah painstakingly continues writing.

* * *

_Closer._

_Closer._

_The prey knows it's over, knows there's no escape. Backed up against a wall, it lashes out._

"Get away!" _it yells._

"Leave me alone!" _it screams._

"Please, please!" _it begs._

_Open your mouths, grin with too many teeth. There will be no mercy here._

_Taste blood on your tongue._

* * *

"Daisy!"

The thing that once was Daisy is massive. Basira had only caught a glimpse when Daisy had surrendered herself to the Hunt, but now, in the dim light of the moon, she can see her in all her growling, snarling glory. Daisy, if there's any of her still left, is bestial, with mouths splitting open from her jaw down to her chest. Her body is covered in coarse, dark fur, and her hands are long claws. There's blood, Reginald's blood, dripping from one of her many mouths.

Basira stands before this monster, gun aimed between its yellow eyes.

"Basira, wait!" Jon shouts, stepping between Daisy and the gun. Basira scowls and readjusts her aim, pointing her gun towards Jon's heart.

"You have two seconds to get out of my way," she says.

"Basira, wait," he repeats. "There's something I want to–"

And the thing that was once Daisy attacks.

* * *

_Taste new blood, taste new screams._

_This blood is familiar, reminds you of knives against throats and questions on tongues. It is weak, and it doesn't fight back when you slam it to the ground._

_The other one fires a bullet. The bullet hurts, but not much. You knock the gun to the ground, advance on this one. It backs away. It says a name._

"Daisy," _it says._ "Daisy."

* * *

Daisy pauses, mouths inches from Basira's throat. Jon figures it's as good an opportunity as he's going to get.

Something in his body is definitely broken, but he can feel it healing already as he pushes himself to his feet. He closes his eyes and tries not only to See, but to Show.

It's something Jonah can do, although Jon hasn't witnessed it firsthand. Still, he's seen enough of the aftermath to understand the general concept. Pull a file from the archive of someone's mind, share it with another.

It helps that he has a visual for Daisy to focus on. He looks at Basira, wide-eyed and pleading, and looks for Basira in Daisy's memories, digging through as far back as he can. He sees flashes of things too private for anyone but Daisy and Basira, but he doesn't stop digging. Hopefully, Daisy will forgive him. If not, it will still be worth it.

He finds what he's looking for. He pulls it forward, holds it in his mind, and gives it to Daisy.

* * *

"Daisy," _it says. Its eyes are wide. It's afraid. It's strong. It's–_

_It–_

She's looking at her, the new kid, her new partner. Her eyes are wide and nervous, but she introduces herself with her hand out and her jaw set.

"Basira Hussain," she says. "Nice to meet you."

And Daisy grins.


	6. Chapter 6

They don’t return to Basira’s flat.

Daisy, with what little strength she has left, gives Basira an address, then collapses into unconsciousness, leaving Basira to carry her away. Jon would offer to help, but he’s not the strongest person at the best of times, and he’s just poured out all his statement-given energy into bringing Daisy back. It’s all he can do to trudge his way after Basira.

They end up in an abandoned apartment building in the kind of neighborhood where Jon can practice shooting a gun and nobody will pay the gunshots any mind. They’re far from the only people staying here–several homeless men blink up at them as they climb the stairs. Basira says Daisy has better safe houses outside of London, but this one is a good place to lay low while they keep searching for Martin.

Martin.

As Basira gently lays Daisy down, brushing hair out of the sleeping woman’s eyes, Jon can’t help but think of Martin. 

* * *

For the third time that night, Jon had walked up to the door to the fragile document storage room, raised his hand to knock, and paused. Twice now he had stood before this door, hand raised, only to walk away. This time, he was pretty sure, would be the same.

“Jon?”

Jon had startled, flinging a hand out and knocking a stack of papers over. He had cursed, immediately hurrying to clean them up as Martin hurried over with a steaming mug in his hands.

“O-oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Back away!” Jon had snapped.

Martin, only a few paces away, had stopped in his tracks, then took a careful step back. “S-sorry.”

“No, wait, I–” Jon had groaned. “I didn’t mean to–I meant–I just didn’t want you to spill tea on the documents.”

“Oh,” Martin had said. “Er, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I-I can reorganize that stack, if you want.”

“No, there’s no use,” Jon had said, picking up the last of the papers and placing the stack back where it originally sat. “It probably wasn’t organized to begin with.”

“Right.” Martin had stood there awkwardly. “Did, er, did you want to speak with me?”

“Oh, right,” Jon had said. “I-I thought you might be asleep, so I didn’t want to-”

“No, no, just making tea. I thought you’d left, actually, or else I would have made you some.”

“Right.”

A pause. “So… _was_ there something–”

“Right!” Jon had said. “Right. Er.” Now speaking to Martin, Jon had found that he hadn’t known how to ask for what he wanted. It had seemed logical, in the dim recesses of his office, but standing before another person, Jon had found himself feeling foolish. “You know what, I’ll just let you get to sleep.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not sleeping any time soon,” Martin had chuckled. “Nightmares, y’know.”

“Ah.” So much for that. “Really, though–”

“Did _you_ want to sleep?” Martin had asked. “I know you said you sometimes used the cot when you were working late, and it _is_ past midnight–”

“No, no, that’s quite alright, I have more than enough work to keep me awake,” Jon had said. “Which is what I wanted to ask you about, actually.”

Jon could have cited the exact moment that Martin’s face fell into exasperation. “Jon, I know you said this is a place of business, but if I’m staying here I _really_ don’t want to be doing extra research after hours–”

“No, no, of course not,” Jon had hurried to assure him. “I wouldn’t dream of it, just…” God, there wasn’t any un-embarrassing way to ask this. “Could you… sit in? While I record a statement?”

Martin had startled almost as much as Jon had, spilling a drop of tea on the floor. Jon had barely winced at that. “Wh- _what?”_

Jon had winced. “Right, sorry, I knew this was a stupid request–”

“No–wait–I’m not saying no!” Martin had stammered. “I’m not saying no! Just… really? You want me to listen?”

Jon, again, had winced. “It’s more that I… would appreciate the company. These archives can be rather ominous at night.”

Martin’s eyes had bugged comically, but he’d quickly smoothed his face into a more neutral expression. Still, he hadn’t been able to hide his incredulity. “I–right! Right, no, not gonna argue with you there, it gets proper spooky down there.”

Jon hadn’t been able to hide his third, and perhaps most pained, wince at the word _spooky._

“Yes, I’ll sit in,” Martin had said. “It’s no problem, Jon.”

* * *

Daisy’s return to humanity was not a complete transformation. Her eyes are still yellow, her teeth still sharp. Still, the fur is gone, as are the extra mouths, and her mind is back, so Jon is counting it as a win. Reminding her of something she had genuinely cared about had brought her close to human, close enough that Basira seems satisfied in not killing her.

Now, hunting down Jonah while keeping Daisy’s humanity intact would be a challenge.

“I can smell him,” Daisy says over a can of cold beans. “Martin, I mean. I could follow him if I wanted to, but I don’t think I’d come back.”

As much as Jon wants Martin back, he knows he can’t ask that of Daisy. He also knows that his _desire_ to ask is blatantly apparent to both Basira and Daisy, but so long as he doesn’t voice it neither of them calls him out on it.

So Jon learns to shoot a gun. It takes him a whole day, and he’s not very good at it, but eventually, Basira tells him to stop wasting bullets. Jon keeps expecting the police to show up asking about all the gunshots, but nobody calls 999.

In the meantime, Basira reaches out to police contacts, Institute employees, anyone who might know where Jonah’s hiding with Martin’s body. Aside from circling rumors that Martin’s been named Head of the Institute, there’s no info. Nobody’s allowed back in the Institute yet, and nobody’s heard from Martin, not even Rosie. It makes Jon mad with anxiety.

It doesn’t help that he’s _hungry_ again, and Basira won’t let him feed.

“You got lucky that your last meal was a piece of shit,” Basira says. “I’m not letting you hurt any more bystanders just to sate your god.”

“That’s not _why_ I want to–”

“Doesn’t matter,” Basira snaps. “The only reason I’m not killing you is that you brought Daisy back. Make another wrong move, I’ll show you how to _really_ fire that gun.”

Jon doesn’t bother arguing again.

Daisy is slow to recover, spending most days sleeping, running out for food and supplies, and sleeping some more. Basira and Jon both pick their way carefully around her, trying not to disturb her rest. Jon knows she needs it even more than him.

And so they sit and they wait for something useful to finally fall into their laps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u like the flashback scene in this chapter i wrote a longer version [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130814)


	7. Chapter 7

Martin’s awake, now. There’s no more slipping into nothingness.

He knows what’s coming. He knows what Jonah’s planning. He tried to stop him, is _still_ trying to stop him, but he can only control his body for brief flashes, and only when he’s really, _really_ worked up. The most he can do with that is cause Jonah some irritation, which, while extremely rewarding, is not actually useful in terms of _stopping the apocalypse_.

The bloody _apocalypse._ Because god knows they haven’t stopped enough of them. Jonah wants to _end the world_.

It would be laughable, if there was something Martin could do to _stop it_. All he can do is watch, wait, and pray.

* * *

There were moments, when they were busy stopping the Unknowing. Moments of quiet, moments of calm. A pause over the phone. Hesitation as they leaned over old documents together. A hand brushing against a hand. Moments that could have been nothing, but both knew they weren’t.

One such moment: two tired men researching how to use plastic explosives. Some gallows humor, a shared chuckle. There was a comfortable silence, and gazes that lingered too long.

“Martin,” Jon had said. His voice, which had sounded out those two syllables many times before, had never seemed so soft.

“Yes?” in response. Barely a whisper.

“I…” Hesitation. Nervousness. A breath that lasts too long, goes from comfortable to awkward in a matter of milliseconds. Jon had cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “I think I found something on this site.”

“Oh.” Disappointment, barely contained, but it was shaken off as Martin leaned over to see what was on the other man’s screen.

And the moment passed, and life went on.

* * *

Finally, _finally_ , they’re allowed back into the Institute.

Basira leaves at the break of dawn, carrying her empty backpack to stuff full with statements. She leaves the gun with Daisy and Jon with a look that reads “don’t be stupid,” then heads out, leaving Daisy and Jon to wait.

“So,” Daisy says after yet another breakfast of cold beans. “How’s the eyeball doing?”

Jon snorts. “Still as invasive and horrifying as ever, thank you. How is Basira?”

“You would know better than I would,” Daisy says. “I’ve only been here a few days.”

“You know what I mean,” he says. “How is she now that you’re here?”

“Good,” she says. “She’s glad I’m back. Disappointed it means I can’t be strong.”

“You are strong,” Jon protests. “You’re stronger than I am.”

Daisy snorts. “At resisting entities, maybe. In a fight? You’re of more use than I am, as hard as that may be to believe.”

“Rude,” Jon says, but he’s smiling. He’d missed her.

Eventually, Jon makes his way to the loo, which has no functional plumbing. The smell of the room makes him gag; he’s not cut out for living on the run. The past few days he’s been trying to use the restroom as little as possible, but as long as the Eye hasn’t cut off his bodily functions there’s only so much he can do to avoid the stench. He carefully breathes through his mouth as he relieves himself, then zips up to head back to the room they’re staying in.

He opens the door and comes face-to-face with Trevor Herbert.

* * *

Institute employees may be allowed back into the building, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a crime scene anymore. After running back to her flat for a quick shower and change of clothes, Basira arrives at the Institute to find the place still crawling with police.

She groans internally. This isn’t going to be a quick trip.

Sure enough, she gets roped into questioning by some officers who say they’d been by her flat, but she hadn’t been in. She gives them her practiced response: she ran as soon as she heard gunshots, she hadn’t heard from Daisy or Jon, she’d been enjoying the time off while things got under control. Judging by their reactions when she mentioned Jon, Goodman had kept mum about their brief visit to the department.

When she’s finally allowed to enter the Archives, she wastes no time. Back when he was busy moping around and wishing Martin would talk to him, Jon had had a brief moment of actual productivity and forethought. He’d gone through the Archives, feeling out for which statements were real, and had placed all of them in his office. It makes it easy for Basira to grab an edible stack of papers and get out of there.

She also notices a single statement resting on Jon’s desk. She grabs it without looking at it too closely, figuring it’s the equivalent of grabbing someone’s unfinished leftovers.

With her backpack heavy and her arms full of boxes, Basira steps back into the main Archive room.

Standing at the door to the Archives is Martin.

“Basira,” he says, grinning coldly.

Basira sighs and wishes she’d brought the gun. “Jonah.”

* * *

“Hidin’ out among my people, eh?” Trevor growls, pressing a knife against Jon’s throat. “You should’ve known I’d find you quick.”

“Trevor,” Jon says. “I’m not surprised to see you here.”

“No, I s’pose you aren’t, are you?” Trevor says. “Bet you knew we were watchin’ you the whole time.”

“I did,” Jon answers. “That’s sort of my whole thing.”

“Don’t matter,” Trevor spits. “We got you separated. We got both you monsters cornered. Now it’s time we end this little game.”

From somewhere in the building, there’s a _BANG_. Jon watches as Trevor’s eyes widen, then narrow.

“Not going to go check on that?” Jon says.

“Quiet,” Trevor snaps. “We know your little attack dog is muzzlin’ herself. Julia can handle her.”

“Hm.” Jon smirks. “I wouldn’t be quite so sure about that.”

Another _BANG_. This time, Trevor flinches. “Those are Julia’s shots,” he says. “She’s puttin’ your dog down.”

“Trust me, I would know if something bad had happened to Daisy,” Jon says. _BANG_. “I don’t think I’d be quite so calm if that were the case.”

Trevor curses under his breath. He pulls the knife away, then socks Jon right in the jaw

The force drives Jon backward, slamming him into the sink and making his head spin. Jon blinks and tries to reorient himself as Trevor turns and runs towards the gunshots.

“Right,” Jon says, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Julia’s gun is on the floor. Julia herself is also on the floor. Between the two stands Daisy, breathing heavy and growling, gun in her right hand, blood splattered across her shirt.

“Leave,” Daisy growls.

Julia spits at her feet. “Fuck off.”

Daisy snarls. _“Leave.”_

“Julia!”

Trevor comes charging into the room. He sees Julia crouched on the floor, and immediately hurries towards her.

_BANG!_

Trevor falls to the ground. Julia screams.

“God, shut up,” Daisy says. She flicks the safety on and slides the gun into the back of her jeans. “Both of you, get out.”

Julia crawls to where Trevor lays. The gunshot on her thigh stretches painfully, but Julia hisses and moves through it. When she reaches Trevor’s crumpled form, she rolls him onto his back. “Get up, old man,” she pleads. “Get _up.”_

Trevor coughs, a small splatter of blood flying from his lips. Julia smiles in relief.

“I said get _out.”_ Daisy strolls forward and kicks Trevor in the side, landing right where the bullet hit. The man cries out in agony, curling in on himself. As Daisy takes a step back, Trevor whimpers and clutches at his wound.

“You don’t want to lose each other, right?” Daisy asks. Neither of them answer, but the way Julia is curled protectively over Trevor’s body is answer enough. “Leave if you don’t want one of your brains splattered on the floor. And know that if you come back, we’ll be ready.”

Julia glowers at Daisy, but a cough from Trevor has her face softening in concern. She stares for a moment, torn between vengeance and Trevor, before shouting a curse in frustration and standing on shaky feet. “Watch your back, mutt,” Julia snarls.

Daisy just rolls her eyes and steps back as Julia lifts Trevor onto his feet. Slowly, the two shuffle out of the room. Both stop suddenly in the hallway. Trevor growls and goes to move forward, but Julia pulls him back, hissing a quiet, “You’re in no state for that, old man.”

“Trevor. Julia.” Jon’s voice drifts in from the hallways.

“Bloody bastard,” Trevor spits.

“Quite,” Jon says. “Sorry, am I in your way?”

There’s the sound of shuffling, then Trevor and Julia continue their path out the building, towards some unknown destination to lick at their wounds. Daisy can hear them beginning their painstaking journey down the stairs when Jon enters the room.

“Well,” Daisy says, “that was somewhat anticlimactic.”

Jon snorts. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“You _know_ I’m anything but,” Daisy says. She sits down on the grungy couch she’s been sleeping on, rolling her neck with a sigh. “Firing a gun isn’t _necessarily_ part of a hunt, but much more of that and I might’ve been gone.”

“I’m sorry for putting you through that,” Jon says.

Daisy waves him off. “Please, without you we wouldn’t have known they were coming.”

“Right.” Jon takes a seat next to Daisy with a sigh of his own. The two sit in silence for a long moment.

“What now?” Daisy asks.

Jon shrugs. “Wait for Basira, I suppose.”

Daisy groans.

* * *

It takes less than an hour after Trevor and Julia’s departure for Basira to arrive. She enters carrying boxes, a loaded backpack, and a grim expression.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks.

Basira places the boxes on the floor by the door. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same question,” she says. “You two look exhausted. And Daisy, is that _blood_ –”

“It’s not mine,” Daisy says.

Basira’s eyebrows raise. “That’s not actually reassuring.”

“Trevor and Julia paid a visit,” Jon explains. “They shouldn’t be a problem again, though.”

“Oh, good.” Basira takes her backpack off and places it next to the boxes. She crosses the room in three paces and squeezes herself next to Daisy. The three of them stare at the peeling wallpaper of the wall in front of them. “What about the Not-Them?”

“Dead,” Jon answers involuntarily. “Trevor and Julia killed them a few days ago.”

Both Basira and Daisy turn to look at Jon. “Well _that_ was surprisingly useful information,” Basira says.

“Yeah.” Sheepishly, Jon rubs at the old worm scars on his arms. “Y’know, between that and the Daisy statement, I’m beginning to wonder if my powers aren’t getting stronger.”

“Daisy statement?” Daisy asks.

“Jon got lucky with a live statement and it brought us to you,” Basira tells her. “Which he’s now saying might have been an eyeball thing, not just luck.”

“I’m just theorizing,” Jon says.

“Well, whatever the case, that should be the last live statement you take in your entire life,” Basira says. She gestures to the boxes and her backpacks. “That should set you up nicely for now.”

“Thank you, Basira,” Jon says.

Basira shrugs. “That’s not all I got at the institute, though. I got information on Jonah’s location.”

“You _what?”_ Jon leaps to his feet. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? Where is he?”

“Calm down, Jon,” Basira says. “Look, it’s not that simple-”

“Of course it’s that simple, he has _Martin_ –”

“He came to _me,_ Jon,” Basira says. “He _knows_ we’re looking for him. He _wants_ us to go to him. He’s just sitting at the Institute doing _paperwork,_ pretending like Martin’s the new Head of the Institute and everything is going back to normal. We can’t just go barging in there, Jon.”

“The _hell_ we can’t–”

“She’s right, Jon,” Daisy says. “We need a better plan. And before you think about it, you _can’t_ take Jonah by yourself.”

Jon glowers, breathing heavily. Daisy and Basira gaze back at him with pity and reprehension, respectively. Slowly, his shoulders deflate, and he leans against the wall.

“I just need him to be okay,” Jon says, voice broken.

Neither Daisy nor Basira know what to say back.

* * *

Before the Unknowing, Jon thought to himself, _maybe._

Maybe, if they stopped the Unknowing. Maybe, if he survived.

Maybe he’d say something. Maybe he’d come clean.

As he recorded his final statement, his voice stumbled over _office gossip._ He’d heard the tape with Basira and Melanie, he knew what they were implying. He couldn’t deny that his heart soared a bit at the possibility, but a bigger part of him could only deny that it could be true–after all, why would Martin pick _him?_ He’d been so cruel to Martin for so long, and even besides that, it’s not like he had a winning personality. Someone like Martin deserved better.

But there were moments Jon couldn’t ignore. The tea. The smiles. The constant fussing. He wanted to write these things off as just Martin being Martin, but he couldn’t bring himself to ignore them. They had to mean something. They _had_ to.

So, _maybe_ is what Jon told himself as he turned the tape off.

Maybe.


	8. Chapter 8

Jonah likes to think himself a fastidious man. Running an institute dedicated to academic research into the occult and supernatural takes a certain degree of effort, after all, and it’s his meticulous nature that has kept the Magnus Institute running.

He’s not painstakingly careful in _everything_ he does, of course. Despite everything, Jonah is still only one man. There’s only so much foresight he can have. Take the unfortunate incident with Jurgen Leitner, or his half-baked plans for his Archivist (after all, if he messed up, he could always find another Archivist).

The one thing Jonah never takes lightly is himself. 

He has, technically, assumed immortality. His original body may be slowly withering away beneath the footprint of his Institute, but as long as there’s another friendless, unattached employee working for him, Jonah knows how to escape death.

It’s just that there are so many variables involved, so many what-ifs and possibilities that have the potential to completely throw a hammer in the works. This is why he seeks the Watcher’s Crown. This is also why he always makes sure he has a new body lined up, in case age catches up before his ritual is ready. And so, within days of transferring himself into Elias Bouchard’s body, Jonah begins searching for his next one. Someone young, someone with very few personal connections, and someone male. Someone who nobody would worry after if their entire personality suddenly changed.

Martin Blackwood was perfect.

Jonah knew Martin’s entire CV was composed almost entirely of lies. Even without the Eye’s help, the way the boy sweat and stumbled through his interview would have been enough of a giveaway. That kind of paranoia, Jonah had thought, would probably cause Martin to shy away from social outings with coworkers, leaving Martin with only his mother for close company. He Knew, of course, of Martin’s fraught relationship with his mother, and it was merely the icing on the cake. Martin would be perfect.

He hadn’t expected Elias’s body to contract lung cancer, although in retrospect he definitely should have. Whatever the case, it forced him to abandon Elias much sooner than planned, with nobody lined up after Martin in case his plans went awry.

He wasn’t worried, however. The Archivist was marked by every entity, resting on a hairpin trigger to end the world. All Jonah had to do was be patient for a little bit longer.

* * *

“I’m sorry about Martin,” Daisy says, apropos of nothing, while Basira is out buying food. “I don’t think I’ve told you that, yet.”

“Thanks,” Jon says, but it sounds hollow. There’s not much to say about Martin, these days. Jon hopes that he’s holding on, that Martin hasn’t succumbed fully to Jonah’s control, but the longer they wait the less chance they have of saving him. Jon is tearing his hair out, desperate to _do something,_ but Basira and Daisy are choosing to play it safe. Jon can’t really blame them. Their desire to keep each other safe is something Jon can relate to.

“You’re gonna get him back, you know,” Daisy says.

Jon scoffs. “What makes you so sure?”

“You got me back,” Daisy says. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

Jon is quiet. “Thank you, Daisy.”

Daisy smiles and leans slightly against Jon. “Anytime.”

* * *

Untitled poem by Martin Blackwood:

_Trapped._

_My soul in a cage, my body in a room_

_alone, alone, alone_

_Trapped._

_Thinking of you frees nothing_

_Frees everything_

_Reminds me of how trapped_

_Frees me from this prison._

_Outside, tormentors._

_Outside, a beast._

_Inside, there’s just me and_

_the thought of you._

* * *

Jon is pretending to sleep when Basira finally brings it up.

“We should leave,” she whispers to Daisy.

 _“What?”_ Daisy is not so quiet. Basira shushes her.

“It’s not safe for you to be in London,” Basira says. “There’s too much… temptation. And you’re a wanted person.”

“I thought I was just missing?”

“Who do you think they want to blame the shooting on?” Basira asks. “You already have a track record. With you missing, they’re ready to pin it on you and brush it under the rug. But you have safehouses all over the EU. Let’s just head up to Scotland and hide out.”

There’s a long silence. Jon is carefully controlling his breathing, slowing it down so the two think he’s asleep.

“We can’t leave Jon,” Daisy says at last.

“He can come with us,” Basira says. Her tone of voice says that even she knows that’s impossible.

“You know he won’t,” Daisy says. “You know he _can’t._ Think of if I were still lost.”

“I know,” Basira says. “But you’re _not._ And I can’t lose you again.”

“He’s my friend.”

“You’re my…” Basira trails off. Jon knows there aren’t words for what they are. “You’re everything.”

A quiet inhale. Jon waits, heart pounding so loud he can swear the two women can hear it. Daisy, at the very least, should be able to hear it. But if she does, she gives no sign of it as she sighs and says, “One more day. It’s safer to travel at night, and we’re not just going to leave him with no notice.”

“I’m sure the eyeball will tell him where we are,” Basira says.

“He’s my _friend,”_ Daisy says. “He deserves this much, at least.”

Basira sighs. “Fine.”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he were asleep. Watching other people’s nightmares would be better than this.

* * *

He comes to peace with the news before Daisy and Basira give it to him, so by the time they tell him he’s leaving he’s able to smile and tell them that it’s alright, that he’ll be fine. He understands why they’re leaving, he really does, but it still stings bitterly to watch them pack up, to watch them glance at each other with anticipation. The rest of their lives are ahead of them. For Jon, all he has is the hope that he can save someone who probably hates him.

Daisy spends as much time as she can with Jon. She makes him listen to an episode of The Archers. It’s garbage, but it’s fun to tease her about it. After a few hours of her hovering, Jon finally reassures her that her departure is not a betrayal, and he doesn’t resent her for her choice.

He doesn’t. It isn’t. It stings, sure, but he understands. He doesn’t know that he would do the same, if roles were reversed, but he doesn’t know that he wouldn’t. It is what it is.

As the sun sets. Daisy and Basira prepare to leave. Jon chooses a statement at random, deciding now is as good a time as any to gather his strength.

Taking a deep breath, Jon begins to read.

“Statement of Hazel Rutter regarding a fire in her childhood home,” he whispers. No reason to traumatize the other two with secondhand horrors. “Original statement given August 9th, 1992. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins.”

He feels it the moment _begins_ leaves his mouth. His words are no longer his own. This isn’t unusual, as he’s long passed the point of being able to control what comes out of his mouth when reading a statement, but he can instantly tell this is different. Usually, he can read a statement without realizing he’s drifted into a trance, but now he’s painfully aware of every syllable as it forces its way out of his mouth. Instead of words being lulled from his mouth, they’re being pulled forcefully out of his throat. Dread grows to a crescendo in a matter of seconds, and as he reads the next line, he knows he’s made a horrible, _horrible_ mistake.

“Hello, Jon.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy :)

Loving Jonathan Sims hurt in a crescendo.

Even when it was just a crush, there was a twinge of pain. The shame every time Jon reprimanded him. The self-loathing that came from knowing the crush was impossible, that someone like Jon would never want someone like him.

Martin thought it’d reached its peak when Jon had come to him, begging and desperate, with a way to leave the Institute. It was everything Martin had ever dreamed of—sans, perhaps, the self-mutilation—and he wanted desperately to say yes. But he couldn’t.

He was wrong, of course. That would not be the most painful moment of loving Jonathan Sims. The most painful moment is when he hears Jonah chuckle, using Martin’s body as a vessel to do so.

“It’s happening, Martin,” Jonah says. “My Archivist is about to complete my life’s work.”

All Martin can think is, _Jon._

* * *

Jon’s throat chokes around the words as he tries, desperately, to stop speaking.

“Apologies for the deception,” Jon says through gritted teeth, “but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

“I assume you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private.” Jon’s hands clench the papers tight. He tries to will his mouth shut. The next words come out anyway, like pulling teeth. “I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

“Now, shall we turn the page and try again?”

 _Help,_ Jon screams internally. _Help._

* * *

“What is it like,” Jon asked, once, between bouts of missing Martin so much it hurt, between wild goose chases of yet another potential apocalypse. “With Basira?”

Daisy had hummed, leaned back in her chair. She’d looked tired, frail. So different from the Daisy who’d held him at gunpoint. Not that different from the one he found in the Buried. “I’ve never known a love that didn’t hurt, in some way,” Daisy says.

Jon had nodded. “I see.”

“But,” Daisy had continued. “With Basira, it’s like… it hurts more to stay away. The hurt, it’s more a fear than actual pain.

“What about you?” she’d asked. “With Martin?”

Jon had laughed bitterly, the sound low and choked. “Agonizing,” he said. “Worse now than ever, with him so deep in the Lonely.”

“He’ll come back,” Daisy had said. “Don’t worry. He’s not going to abandon you.”

* * *

Far away, trapped in a body he can no longer control, Martin screams for Jon.

 _I’m so sorry,_ he wants to say. _I’m so, so sorry._

“Oh, quiet,” Jonah says. “I’m trying to enjoy the show.”

* * *

“I am to be a _king_ of a ruined world,” Jon says, pained, “and I will never die.”

It’s the helplessness of it all. Not just in reading Jonah’s statement, but in hearing Jonah’s plan in its entirety. Jon never stood a chance, did he? Nothing he’d done had mattered; it had all been a part of Jonah’s master plan. Preventing apocalypses didn’t even _matter_. He was just a tool in a complex plan to end the world.

He had been trying to _save_ the world. The irony twists Jonah’s words deeper.

The list of Jon’s mistakes. The list of his marks. Each one fills Jon with shame; he’d been such a fool, so ignorant to what was really going on. The Web, the Eye, the Corruption, the Stranger, the Spiral, the Hunt, the Desolation, the Vast, the Slaughter, the End, the Flesh, the Buried, the Dark, and–

“The Lonely,” Jon says, puppeteered by Jonah’s words. “Poor Peter. He really should’ve left well enough alone.”

Jonah uses Jon’s voice to laugh. Part of Jon wonders if this is how Martin feels, with his body controlled by Jonah.

“Ah, well,” Jon continues. “He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about _Ma–”_

 _Martin,_ Jon’s soul screams.

“Martin!” he shouts. The word is his own, not Jonah’s, and it flies from Jon’s lips like a gasp of fresh air. Just as quickly, he’s dragged back into the statement, but the damage is done. He hears footsteps coming towards him.

“I’m sure you’re wondering how Martin is doing,” Jon says as Daisy pokes her head into the room. She looks at him questioningly, then her eyes widen when she sees the look on his face. “I assure you, Jon, that I am taking _very_ good care of him. He’s earned it, don’t you think? For someone to _care_ about him, in some way?”

“Jon,” Daisy gasps. “Basira, get in here!”

* * *

“No,” Jonah growls. _“No!”_

Martin doesn’t know what’s happening, but he feels hope swell. _Please,_ he begs to himself, _let Jon be okay._

* * *

“And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date,” Jon says. “I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.”

Daisy rips the paper out of Jon’s hand and throws it to the ground, which solves nothing. Jon keeps reciting Jonah’s words as if he knows them by heart. “You are prepared. You are ready. You are _marked.”_ There are tears streaming down his face.

“Jon!”

He turns to the door. Basira is there, gun aimed at his head. “Jon, _stop!”_

“Basira, no!” Daisy covers Jon with her body, arms spread. “Don’t!”

“He’s going to end the _world,_ Daisy!” Basira shouts. “Get out of the way!”

“It’s not him!” Daisy says. “It’s Magnus! Please, just help me stop him!”

Basira hesitates for a moment. Jon meets her eyes, pleading, as he continues to speak. “Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.”

 _Do it,_ he thinks desperately, trying to convey his thoughts to Basira. _Shoot me. Do it._

Daisy lets out a shout of desperation and grabs Jon, placing her hand over his mouth. It muffles his words, but it’s not enough to stop him. “Now,” he says, and he laughs, and laughs, and laughs. “Repeat after me.”

His hand scrabbles at Daisy. The other reaches into his pocket and pulls out his spiderweb lighter.

Daisy’s eyes lock onto the lighter.

“Basira, the paper!” she yells. She lets go of Jon’s mouth, reaching for the lighter, and Jon begins to speak in a low, ominous chant.

 _“You who watch and know and understand none,”_ he says. _“You who listen and hear and will not comprehend.”_

Daisy tosses the lighter to Basira. Basira grabs the crumpled statement on the floor and lifts it over the lighter.

 _“You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right,”_ Jon says just as the fire catches onto the corner of the page.

Instantly, Jon is in agony. He’s screaming in what he thinks is pain, reaching for Basira with desperate hands. His vision blurs for a moment, and he realizes that Daisy has him pinned to the ground, growling in his ear.

Still, he continues to chant. _“Come to us in your wholeness, come to us in your perfection.”_

“Basira,” Daisy snarls. Her nails dig sharply into Jon’s arm, drawing blood. “Basira, I can’t hold him, it’s too much, I’m going to–”

“Switch with me,” Basira says desperately.

Daisy lets Jon up.

A mistake.

* * *

“Come on,” Jonah mutters. “Come _on.”_

 _Come on,_ Martin thinks. _Come on, Jon._

* * *

_“Bring all that is fear,”_ Jon screams, lurching towards Basira, _“and all that is terror–”_

He slams Basira against a wall with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. A strength he _doesn’t_ possess. Whatever is fueling him, it is not his own power.

_“–and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes–”_

He’s choking her, hands clenched tightly around her throat. Basira’s eyes are wide, her mouth gasping for air.

_“–and blinds and falls–”_

Daisy is clawing at his arm. He barely feels it. He barely hears her pleading.

_“–and twists and leaves–”_

He’s still burning. Something is still causing him pain. He searches, desperate.

 _There._ Flickering on the floor.

_“–and hides and weaves–”_

He launches himself at the statement. A pair of pale hands beat him to it.

_“–and burns and hunts–”_

Daisy’s foot connects with Jon’s chest, sending him sprawling. She holds the paper and the lighter, the latter of which she flicks on.

_“–and rips and leads and dies!”_

He scrambles to his feet. The paper continues to burn.

 _“Come to us,”_ he says, taking a single step forward. _“I–I…_ I…”

Jon collapses to his knees. “I…”

* * *

Far away, locked in his office, inhabiting the body of Martin Blackwood, Jonah Magnus screams in fury.


End file.
